And with the Way You've Been Talking
Every word gets you a step closer to hell
The bottles were behind the door. Empty bottles of alcohol. And every time he would open the door, it would hit the bottles making the clang noises. He would look at the bottles with no expression on his face, his unshaven face, before lifting his eyes in the direction of the room.
As if he could smell fear, he walked towards it, throwing his jacket on the floor and unbuttoning his shirt a little. He reeked of alcohol, smoke and cheap cologne. He wore devilish smirk on his face, getting closer.
The floor screeched from the weight he was applying, but so did the door.
“Come out, come out wherever you are.” His voice was sickly sweet, it could make any person afraid.
“Come out, I’m not gonna hurt you.”
“Bad.” The thoughts rushed through my head in the speed of light, my eyes widened in fear when I saw his silhouette standing in front of me.
“There you are.” He kneeled down matching my eye level before tightening his hand in my hair. He pulled me up to a standing position. I was silent. I didn’t wanted to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he hurt me. I just bit my lip in silence and pain, preparing myself for the worse.
My eyes were closed, my heart was beating like crazy, but it never came. Not a scream, not a hit, not a kick in the gut. Slowly, I opened my eyes looking at him, fear obviously showing on my face, while my breathing was fast and short.
“Awww,” he coed, “you look afraid of something. What is it?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat, afraid to even speak.
He tightened the grip on my hair, his eyes getting dark with anger.
“It’s not me, is it?” My bottom lip quivered a little. I knew what was coming for me. He shook my head, making the tears that fell down my face to spatter around in every direction. My stomach hurt, my throat hurt, my head hurt.
The kick, the squeeze, the shaking, the hit in the face.
Everything hurt.
It hurt because I let it hurt. It was my entire fault. I let it hurt.
“Stop please,” I managed to whisper in a small voice, before feeling my body being thrown down on the floor. Once I could be able to breathe and move, I curled my body in a ball and cried. And cried.
All this time he was standing next to me, watching the product of his work.
“Get up!” He screamed.
“I said get the fuck up.” And once again he pulled me to a standing position. I was afraid that he might repeat his action from before, but he just kept staring at me.
He wiped the tears from my face with his thumbs, smiling sickly, before pushing me back on the floor.
“I’m hungry. Make me something to eat,” he roared, slamming the door.
My mind was blank, I didn’t even wanted to begin processing what happened, or why it happen. I just knew that I had to obey him, or it would end really badly.
I wiped the tears that never stopped falling, wiping away his smell. Standing up was never this hard for me. My legs were shaking, barely being able to support my tiny body, my aching body. Skinny as a corpse, bones shoving from beneath my skin, I gathered the strength and walked to the kitchen.
He sat in the living room, I could clearly see his entire body. Sitting in the big, old chair, that had the imprint of his body on it, bottle in his hand, looking at old pictures of a broken up family.
Smiling faces on the old, dusty, crumpled pictures were just a fade away memory. Like it didn’t happen at all. Like it was some other family sitting next to each other, hugging and smiling. Those faces were no more what they were. Instead of smiles, there were frowns. Instead of hugs, there were hits and kicks.
The time made them faded away, making them what they are today. Just a memory.
The memory that hurt so much. The memory that made him the way he is now.
I heard him sigh and threw the pictures on the floor. They fell down scattering all over. I grabbed the sandwich I made and made my way into the living room. With my legs still shaking, I approached the big chair, holding a plate in my hands.
“What took you so long?” He screamed once again. “You want me to starve?” He grabbed the plate from my hands and bit down the sandwich viciously.
I knew it hurt him too, I hear him sob every night in his room.
“Dad I’m sorry,” I whispered lowering my eyes, not being able to look at him. “I’m sorry Mom left.”
Silence.
Hit.
“You little bitch,” he continued to scream at me while his kicks and hits were sending my body flying from corner to corner of the room. With every hit, I regret saying anything to him. I regret even being related to him. It was just my luck. But you can’t chose your parents.
If I could I wouldn’t chose a cheating whore for a mother, and abusive alcoholic for a father.
But when God was giving away good parents, I was late.
Much like in everything in my life, I was late.
Nights were the worse. I would silently cry in my bed, crying because I was crying, because it hurt even when I was breathing, let alone crying. I would cry every time I would hear my father sobbing lightly in his bed.
Maybe it was time for me to do something. To change something. I wasn’t going to be late again. I did what I had to do. No regrets, no double takes.
I stood behind the door, waiting. The dogs were barking, the neighbors were standing in front of their houses in their nightgowns. Everyone wanted to know what was going on. Even him. As soon as he realized, as soon as he heard the police banging on the door, he ran toward my room. But I wasn’t there.
The front door opened, the police were scattered around living room and kitchen, searching for my father.
I could smell him. He was so close. The smell of alcohol, smoke and cheep cologne was so close I could almost taste it. My breathing seized in my lugs when I saw him looking my way.
I stayed completely still, because maybe he hadn't seen me and my life wouldn't be ruined.
As if he could smell fear, he walked towards it, throwing his jacket on the floor and unbuttoning his shirt a little. He reeked of alcohol, smoke and cheap cologne. He wore devilish smirk on his face, getting closer.
The floor screeched from the weight he was applying, but so did the door.
“Come out, come out wherever you are.” His voice was sickly sweet, it could make any person afraid.
“Come out, I’m not gonna hurt you.”
“Bad.” The thoughts rushed through my head in the speed of light, my eyes widened in fear when I saw his silhouette standing in front of me.
“There you are.” He kneeled down matching my eye level before tightening his hand in my hair. He pulled me up to a standing position. I was silent. I didn’t wanted to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he hurt me. I just bit my lip in silence and pain, preparing myself for the worse.
My eyes were closed, my heart was beating like crazy, but it never came. Not a scream, not a hit, not a kick in the gut. Slowly, I opened my eyes looking at him, fear obviously showing on my face, while my breathing was fast and short.
“Awww,” he coed, “you look afraid of something. What is it?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat, afraid to even speak.
He tightened the grip on my hair, his eyes getting dark with anger.
“It’s not me, is it?” My bottom lip quivered a little. I knew what was coming for me. He shook my head, making the tears that fell down my face to spatter around in every direction. My stomach hurt, my throat hurt, my head hurt.
The kick, the squeeze, the shaking, the hit in the face.
Everything hurt.
It hurt because I let it hurt. It was my entire fault. I let it hurt.
“Stop please,” I managed to whisper in a small voice, before feeling my body being thrown down on the floor. Once I could be able to breathe and move, I curled my body in a ball and cried. And cried.
All this time he was standing next to me, watching the product of his work.
“Get up!” He screamed.
“I said get the fuck up.” And once again he pulled me to a standing position. I was afraid that he might repeat his action from before, but he just kept staring at me.
He wiped the tears from my face with his thumbs, smiling sickly, before pushing me back on the floor.
“I’m hungry. Make me something to eat,” he roared, slamming the door.
My mind was blank, I didn’t even wanted to begin processing what happened, or why it happen. I just knew that I had to obey him, or it would end really badly.
I wiped the tears that never stopped falling, wiping away his smell. Standing up was never this hard for me. My legs were shaking, barely being able to support my tiny body, my aching body. Skinny as a corpse, bones shoving from beneath my skin, I gathered the strength and walked to the kitchen.
He sat in the living room, I could clearly see his entire body. Sitting in the big, old chair, that had the imprint of his body on it, bottle in his hand, looking at old pictures of a broken up family.
Smiling faces on the old, dusty, crumpled pictures were just a fade away memory. Like it didn’t happen at all. Like it was some other family sitting next to each other, hugging and smiling. Those faces were no more what they were. Instead of smiles, there were frowns. Instead of hugs, there were hits and kicks.
The time made them faded away, making them what they are today. Just a memory.
The memory that hurt so much. The memory that made him the way he is now.
I heard him sigh and threw the pictures on the floor. They fell down scattering all over. I grabbed the sandwich I made and made my way into the living room. With my legs still shaking, I approached the big chair, holding a plate in my hands.
“What took you so long?” He screamed once again. “You want me to starve?” He grabbed the plate from my hands and bit down the sandwich viciously.
I knew it hurt him too, I hear him sob every night in his room.
“Dad I’m sorry,” I whispered lowering my eyes, not being able to look at him. “I’m sorry Mom left.”
Silence.
Hit.
“You little bitch,” he continued to scream at me while his kicks and hits were sending my body flying from corner to corner of the room. With every hit, I regret saying anything to him. I regret even being related to him. It was just my luck. But you can’t chose your parents.
If I could I wouldn’t chose a cheating whore for a mother, and abusive alcoholic for a father.
But when God was giving away good parents, I was late.
Much like in everything in my life, I was late.
Nights were the worse. I would silently cry in my bed, crying because I was crying, because it hurt even when I was breathing, let alone crying. I would cry every time I would hear my father sobbing lightly in his bed.
Maybe it was time for me to do something. To change something. I wasn’t going to be late again. I did what I had to do. No regrets, no double takes.
I stood behind the door, waiting. The dogs were barking, the neighbors were standing in front of their houses in their nightgowns. Everyone wanted to know what was going on. Even him. As soon as he realized, as soon as he heard the police banging on the door, he ran toward my room. But I wasn’t there.
The front door opened, the police were scattered around living room and kitchen, searching for my father.
I could smell him. He was so close. The smell of alcohol, smoke and cheep cologne was so close I could almost taste it. My breathing seized in my lugs when I saw him looking my way.
I stayed completely still, because maybe he hadn't seen me and my life wouldn't be ruined.
♠ ♠ ♠
Comments are always appreciated